Michael Nesmith, A Dedicated Friend

“He was two-tone and full-blown/And a dedicated friend of time”

My happiest moments have always involved live music. I could be anywhere; a sleazy bar in downtown Indianapolis, a packed stadium in Louisville or an open field in the middle of nowhere. If there’s someone on a stage — sturdy or makeshift — I’m happy.

You can guess my elation when, in 2018, I and a friend somehow managed to sit just a few rows in front of the great Michael Nesmith, one of the best to ever pick up a pen and a guitar. I was in Michigan, a place at that point I had never been before, at the Royal Oak Music Theatre. This wasn’t the first time I saw Nesmith live, I saw him a few months earlier with Micky Dolenz in Ohio. That night, in the quaint little venue not far from Detroit, Nesmith wasn’t a Monkee. Instead, he was backed by his First National Band, a group that put out hits such as “Joanne” and “Silver Moon.”

The biggest takeaway from that show, other than the fact that a 75-year-old man could still hit a beautiful falsetto, was the power of music to transform. And for that lesson, I and many others owe Michael Nesmith a lot.

The first time I heard Nesmith was on one of Ma’s albums. Without giving away her age, she’s of the MTV rerun generation and grew up watching and listening to The Monkees, a hobby she passed down to me. Music was constantly playing in my house growing up, and I think I was about 6 years old the first time I heard “What Am I Doing Hangin’ Round?” Everything about that track was amazing: the guitar, the banjo, the production, and most importantly at the time, the vocals. I’m no diehard fan of modern country music (I’d rather cut both my ears off than listen to a goddamn Luke Bryan song), but any fascination with Nelson, Haggard and the like? That started with Nesmith’s twang and storytelling.

From that point on, a Monkees CD (the “Best of the Monkees” album, to be more accurate), was constantly playing on my Walkman. Ma and I bonded over watching the TV show, and one of my favorite concert memories is seeing Dolenz and Peter Tork (her favorite Monkee) at Murat Theatre in 2016. Even though, by the time I was in middle school, the incessant playing of “Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd.” had waned, hearing “Good Clean Fun” could pull me out of any funk.

That came back to help in an unexpected way as an adult.

If you’ve known me for any period of time, you know I’m open and honest about my mental health problems. This isn’t a noble attempt to break the stigma, I’d much rather not have to share the gory details of my OCD and depression. I’m open about it because my symptoms are usually impossible to hide. If I’m not obsessive and panicky about something, I’m usually brooding and, for lack of a better phrase, a raging bitch. Better to get that out in the open.

The last two years of college were rough, mentally. Stress from work and classes escalated my OCD, and being surrounded by friends who were typically stoned out of their minds didn’t help anything. By junior year, I wasn’t eating, I wasn’t sleeping and I wasn’t feeling much of anything. I rarely admit it — and certainly didn’t at the time — but I didn’t think I was going to make it out of that alive. I didn’t want to die, but if that’s the way life was going to be, I didn’t want that, either.

And then one night, I was dog-sitting for a friend in what could only be described as a trusty safe haven to many a college-aged stoner. To drown out the noises of whatever drug-fueled incidents were happening next door, I stumbled upon “The Monkees” TV show uploaded on YouTube. I don’t remember what episodes I watched — a common side effect of dog-sitting in a trap house — but I do remember laughing, which is something I hadn’t done in a while. That was the first step toward healing.

Fast forward a few months, and I’m sitting in the Royal Oak Music Theatre with a great friend (who, by the way, I befriended over The Monkees on Tumblr). I was slowly getting better; I cut ties with people I needed to cut ties with for my own sanity and safety, I was taking better care of myself, and I found some semblance of God. (Stick with me, here.) I started poring over the Bible, the Bhagavad Gita, anything that would help me find some meaning. That night was a reminder that the God or gods we seek can be found anywhere. Most of my “religious experiences” happen in the presence of live music.

Late in the show, Nesmith went into “Dedicated Friend” from the 1970 album “Loose Salute.” Toward the end of the song, the speaker sings about a search for Jesus, who was described as “almost dead from helping people … and a dedicated friend of mine.” Something clicked, then. Finding meaning in life doesn’t have to come from a holy book or a “calling,” the meaning comes from whatever makes us happy: music, art, drunkenly arguing with your uncle about foreign policy over Thanksgiving dinner. Whatever it is that makes you happy, pursue it. Think of it as a Dedicated Friend.

I didn’t walk out of that show healed. My friends will tell you that I’m still — and I’m allowed to say this — batshit crazy. But even on bad days, I can hold onto whatever Dedicated Friend is helping me to get through to tomorrow. And for the vast majority of my life, that’s been Nesmith’s music,

So thank you, Dedicated Friend, for everything. Rest easy.